


When We’re Touching in the Dark Can You Feel It?

by crowleyshouseplant (orphan_account)



Category: High School Musical (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombies, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Stitching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-17
Updated: 2013-02-17
Packaged: 2017-11-29 13:31:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/687515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/crowleyshouseplant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chad and Ryan in a zombie apocalypse au also known as an au of a Warm Bodies au.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When We’re Touching in the Dark Can You Feel It?

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Ashely, who unironically loves High School Musical (as do I). Title from Ke$ha’s Supernatural.

 

They’d run out of bullets a long time ago. That’s what happens in apocalypses, Chad told himself, as he and Ryan pushed through busted up window frames and cruised trashed walmarts, empty pharmacies, and raided gun stores with sun-faded, peeling NRA stickers in their windows (which, yes, Chad still took the time to deface with whatever he had on his person at the time—a stub of chewed up pencil, half used tube of lipstick, or even just a fingernail already grimy with dirt, blood, and guts), and movie theatres because hell nothing goes bad in those concession stands (stale, maybe, but never bad).

But the Sports Chalet they were in now still had some supplies. Ryan kicked in a vending machine on its side that still had packaged foodstuffs in it, stashing the last of the chips and gum in their backpacks and sharing the last bottle of coke, even though Ryan said he wasn’t thirsty.

“It’s not about the thirst, dude, it’s about the taste, the expectation of hearing it hiss when you pop it open. Besides this might be the last coke on earth. You don’t want to miss out.”

It still fizzed and tingled his tongue, burned down his throat and damn, Chad had forgot how good that was as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, handing the plastic bottle to Ryan.

“Remember science class shenanigans?” Ryan said, sipping through his straw.  “You smuggled in some mentos.”

Chad just smiled, took another swig of coke and waited for the caffeinated sugar rush to set in. Sometimes he missed school bells. Ding, time to start. Dong, you’re late. Ding you’re really late in trouble late, and then finally, ding-dong, the you’re free to go home now but not really cause you still got homework to do when you get there bell.

“We need better weapons,” Ryan said. He’d already chucked his shotgun to the wayside when they ran away from the last herd of zombies.

Chad had got zombie juice over the butt of his and hadn’t been able to find some rubbing alcohol to scrub it clean again. You just don’t take chances like that, with it so close to your face and all, and if he was gonna be using it for a club instead of a gun there were better suited devices for that.

Ryan gestured behind Chad. “Bats. Nothing like a good baseball bat for the apocalypse. Isn’t that what all your comic books said?” Handed the bottle back to Chad, then did an awkward little shuffle-twirl, hands and wrists posed just so like he was on stage. “You got game still?”

Chad coughed up coke, pounded his sternum with his fist because it’d been a long time since they talked about it, about when summers were for fun and finding jobs to pay for college educations—those same colleges that were moldering and empty with files skittering like paper bats in the wind, not so big and intimidating and institutional now were they—when baseball diamonds were more about people cheering their teams on towards victory or do better next time from stadiums, more about skidding home, and less about straggling weeds encroaching from the grass over the bases—

When summer had been about talent shows and making sure your voice was on pitch and on key and you had your harmony down.

When summer was more than finding that one safe haven that’d have walls high enough to keep hunger out, when summer was more than waiting to hear the zombie crawl and moan and shuffle, when summer was more about holding hands because you could and you wanted to, less if you don’t you’ll just be ripped away and you’ll be gone, gone, gone.

“You okay?” Ryan said.

“I’m great.” Chad pushed by Ryan, finger shoving against his chest in what he hoped would pass for an I like you but I’m still gonna give you shit because I can kind of way instead of some sappy idea of hey remember when. “Still don’t dance though.”

They moved to the bats, still mostly hanging from their places. “I bet this place has a stereo and we could find a cd or something and slow dance. I bet you’d like that for all the right reasons,” Ryan said.

Chad allowed himself one smile and, fists clenched around the baseball grip, swung for a homerun, swung long with desperation instead of short for the win because there’s no winning this, moving his hips like yeah ‘cause there’s no practice for this, there’s no dip and shift deep enough to hit this out of the park. “Batteries have probably all been looted,” he said.

“Probably.” Ryan tested his out, swung more gently, like he was prepping for a gig, like he didn’t need to bash a zombie’s brains in and let’s be honest he probably didn’t have to he just did it because he wanted to, like it was art instead of survival.

That made Chad’s stomach go funny and suddenly the coke wasn’t settling so well, like he was suddenly there at the fifth grade science fair and his coke and mentos chemically bonding and reacting before going boom, a wanna-be bomb.

“You ready?” Ryan said.

Chad nodded, then pulled stale bubblegum from his pocket, wadded a stick, and put it in his mouth. Sweet, sugary, pink flavor seeped through the acid of the coke, slicking up his tongue with full bodied flavor that was a relief after packaged space food. “Born ready.”    

It was night when they left, and there was a clear shot of the moon, brighter than Chad ever imagined it ever could be now that there was no power and city lights were just iron ghosts with broken bits of glass and copper wire that you could rig into a battery if you knew the right science.

Chad blew a bubble, not in a hurry because his legs were tired and his bones were heavy.

“Can I?” Ryan said.

“Yeah, dude.” Chad blew again, not as large a bubble as before, and Ryan leaned in close, close till they were touching noses close, and bit down soft on that stretch of gum, popping it in the soft pale pink of his mouth, then lingering a spare second before he pulled away, chewing down loud, grinning his thanks.

“Tastes good,” Ryan said.

Chad swung his bat over his shoulder, rubbed his mouth with his fist. “Does it?”

Ryan turned his face away, looked at the street like it was the most interesting thing in this ghost town. “Like cotton candy, I think. Maybe. I sort of don’t remember how it tastes.” He slipped his hand in Chad’s and they picked their way through the litter of dead cars and road kill. “Sad, huh?”

“Yeah.” Chad squeezed Ryan’s hand. It was sad, the things they forgot like putting on deo in the morning, the things they remembered like the jaw was a zombie’s weak point (that same jaw that probably chowed down on chips and salsa during football Sundays before the world got flushed down the toilet) because nothing teaches you about human anatomy like the apocalypse bring it on grade health ed teacher whose name he can’t remember anymore.  “Did you find some of that leather twine?” he asked.

“Nope,” Ryan said. He dug in his pack and pulled out a ball of purple yarn stuck with gold glitter. “Found this though.”

Chad wished it was stronger stuff. “We’ll stich you up again when we make camp.” They had found a place in the mountains, surrounded by rock and stone yet still nearby the main human basecamp in case a real emergency happened and they needed the shelter and protection a large group provided.

Chad wondered how many times he’d climb that mountain without walking away with blisters, sore arches, and tired ankles.

Maybe just one more time.

They risked a fire because it was cold and sometimes a recklessness took hold of Chad because they were always so careful, always so goddamn careful, and for what because shit still happened and was it too much to ask that they be warm for one night?

Ryan unwrapped the strips of torn up t-shirt from his arm, already stiff from the zombie juice that leaked between the stitches they’d first made weeks ago when Ryan first got bit, died, then came shuffling and moaning back to life almost like it was some ordinary Sunday morning instead of the end of the world.

“I can do it,” Ryan said. “Gotten pretty good about stitching myself back up.”

Chad threaded their needle with their purple yarn, fingers thimbled up and ready to go incase he accidentally poked himself.  “I got this,” he said.

Ryan sat down, knees bent and folded, and held his arm out, not even wincing when Chad began to sew the bite back up again.

He guessed that Ryan couldn’t feel much anymore—maybe that was why he was always squeezing his hand so hard just in case.

The rich purple made Ryan’s skin look even deader than usual.  Chad didn’t comment.

He tied the stitches off with a tight knot, then gently wound the t-shirt strips back around just in case the bite started leaking again.

“Thanks,” Ryan said softly.

“You got any other nicks on you that need to be sewn back up?” Chad said, just as soft.

“Nope, think I’m good.”

They slept back to back, Chad facing the fire while Ryan faced out towards the night, taking the brunt of the wind. Chad’s heart still scudded hard against his chest even though it wasn’t like they had a herd of zombies at their heels, while Ryan was silent and cold, not even snoring like he had before he died, when they slept over at each other's homes.

It was one of the things that Chad missed the most. 


End file.
